


let you whip me if i misbehave

by seventhstar



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Superheroes/Superpowers, Dirty Talk, Flogging, Hostage Victor Nikiforov, Kidnapping, M/M, Megamind AU, Mirror Sex, Mutual Pining, Resolved Sexual Tension, Supervillain Katsuki Yuuri, Supervillains, but in a fun way
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-24
Updated: 2018-06-24
Packaged: 2019-05-27 17:44:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15029837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seventhstar/pseuds/seventhstar
Summary: In which Yuuri is a supervillain, Viktor is the guy he keeps kidnapping, and choosing a BDSM aesthetic as his supervillain trademark was probably a mistake, because now, Yuuri discovers, Viktor expects him todeliver.+A very loose Megamind AU.





	let you whip me if i misbehave

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thishasbeencary](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thishasbeencary/gifts).



> This was originally written for the YOI Litmag Issue 1, but I ended up going with something else instead! So y'all get this at 3 am, the hour in which I make bad decisions.

Yuuri is so nervous about making his debut as Eros, supervillain extraordinaire, that he does a shot to relax. And then another. And then two more. Phichit isn’t around, and Vicchan is still recovering from surgery in a tiny doggy hospital bed, so there’s no one to see Yuuri drunkenly reapply his eyeliner and march out the door with smudgey black eyelids.

New Metro City’s current local supervillain is named The Amazing Chad.

 _What kind of villain calls himself_ Chad, Yuuri wonders as he rides his hoverbike through Chad’s mansion’s defenses. Chad thinks a forcefield and a couple cameras makes him secure, the fool. He parks off the side of the roof and dehydrates the nearest window before climbing through. The inside of the house is awful—the carpet is white, the walls are white, and the crown molding is gilded. There’s not a Tesla coil or blinky dial in sight.

“You can do this,” he tells himself as he stalks the halls in search of wherever Chad is holding his hostage. The walls keep moving, running into Yuuri’s face, which is an interesting method of keeping out intruders but not one that can stop Eros. Yuuri’s not afraid of walls. Only of public speaking and going back to prison.

Chad is set up in a large room on the ground floor. Yuuri scans it from above using his penetration goggles, but has to stop after a few minutes because it’s making him dizzy. He checks himself in the mirror. Black leather head to toe: check. Modified riding crop with taser, laser, and tranquilizing functions: check. Eye makeup for intimidation: check. He is a strong, powerful villain, and he is going to kidnap Chad’s hostage and impress upon him how terrifyingly evil he is right now.

Yuuri weakens a section of the ceiling using the debilitate setting on his gun (it’s just drywall and wood, Yuuri realizes, not even any rebar or booby traps, who _is_ Chad even) and kicks his way through. He drops down into the room behind the chair in the center where the hostage is tied. It’s dark, but for a few bare bulbs hanging from the ceiling at strategic points; plenty of shadows to hide in as Yuuri stalks, silently around the hostage, coming closer and closer and closer, riding crop in hand—

—and falls flat on his face at the hostage’s feet.

 _Oh no,_ Yuuri thinks. _He’s hot. And he looks just like Nicephorus._

The hostage has long, fine silver hair that shines even in the unflattering lighting, and eyes that are too blue, and the kind of sensitive pink mouth that makes Yuuri think of flowers blooming in spring. Yuuri’s never seen anyone with hair the color of Nicephorus’s; he’d always assumed that having hair like a fairy prince was one of the perks of Nicephorus’s magical superpowers. Apparently not. His hands are bound behind the back of the chair, but his crossed legs and bored expression make him look less like a victim and more like a neglected guest.

“Hi,” Yuuri begins. “Wait, no, I don’t—hi. I’m Eros. Evil Eros.”

“Eros,” the man repeats. He has a Russian accent. _Oh, god,_ Yuuri thinks, _he sounds like Gru. And apparently I’m into that._ “I’m Viktor.”

“Viktor,” Yuuri repeats. “This is—I—” he flounders. He gets to his feet, and the room sways dangerously. Possibly that second shot of whatever alcohol Phichit brewed was a mistake. ( _Hangover free,_ Phichit had said. _Liver safe. Still gets you drunk as fuck._ ) “This is a kidnapping. Of you.”

Viktor blinks at him before looking over his shoulder at his restrained hands. “I know?”

“No, I mean—is that a poodle?”

There is a beautiful brown poodle sitting on the floor nearby, chewing on a rawhide bone and watching him. She has soulful eyes, a lolling tongue, floof for days. Yuuri sits back down on the floor; he can’t handle this. How is he supposed to engage in villainy when there are dogs? Dogs don’t deserve this.

“You’re a good girl, aren’t you?” To Yuuri’s delight, the poodle comes over to make friends. He ruffles the fluff on her head. “Aren’t you? Trick question, you are.” Good Poodle climbs on top of him, and Yuuri obediently lies down. The floor is cold, but the dog is warm. It’s an acceptable sacrifice.

“Aw, how cute,” Viktor coos. He laughs.

He’s laughing at Yuuri. This was not the plan.

 _Evil,_ Yuuri reminds himself. _You are a katsudon temptress here to seduce him away from the side of good. God, I’m hungry. Get it together, Katsuki._

“No.”

  
He stands up and sweeps out his arm dramatically, gesturing with the crop for emphasis. “I am Eros, the new supervillain of New Metro City. And I’m here to kidnap you.”

“No.”

Yuuri, mouth open to continue with his speech, mouths soundlessly. This didn’t happen during his rehearsals. “No?”

“I’ve already been kidnapped once today and I didn’t like it. I’ll have to decline.”

Well, shit. What is he supposed to do? Just drag him kicking and screaming away? That’s probably what Chad would do. The Society of Nefarious International Supervillains have sent him some complimentary roofies, but Yuuri really doesn’t want to drug anyone. What would his mother say?

“That’s…okay.” Yuuri considers. “Fine. I’m here to kidnap this good dog.”  
  
“Wait!”

He picks up Good Poodle, who woofs but does not resist, and flees.

To his horror, Hot Hostage Viktor follows him. And he is way, way faster than Yuuri would have predicted. None of the hostages in his Seminar on Effective Kidnapping were like this, Yuuri thinks as he dodges Viktor by a hair’s breadth. He hits the summon button on the key fob in his pocket as he sprints towards the front door.

The door is made of solid steel and bolted shut with six locks. Impossible to kick through.

The walls around it are just regular brick and plastic, though. Yuuri punches his way out and bolts for the invisible car. Viktor seizes him by the wrist—”That’s my dog!”—and Yuuri takes the opportunity to yank open the car door, push the poodle in, and watch as Viktor scrambles into the car after her. Then Yuuri jumps in and slams the door.

“Autopilot, destination: lair,” Yuuri pants. There’s a click as the doors lock before the car starts to move. It’s whisper silent, all electric, the tires specially made to muffle sound. He slumps against the leather interior. “How did you get out of the ropes?”

“Why did you steal my dog?”

“I thought she was Chad’s dog.”

“How dare you.”

“Sorry.” Yuuri wipes his face with his sleeve. Leather is not absorbent and all he does is smear sweat and eyeliner all over his face. He feels nauseous and he looks like a knock off raccoon. _What the fuck,_ Yuuri thinks. _Worst villain ever._ He glances over at Viktor, who is lounging against the seat and unbuttoning his shirt. Unfortunately, he only undoes three buttons, which is just enough for Yuuri ascertain that he has great pecs, and that his body has an astonishing resemblance to that one pic of Nicephorus Yuuri jerks off to, where half his costume is gone and there’s sweat glistening on his rippling abs. “You, uh, you look just like Nicephorus.”

Consequence-free alcohol, his ass. He’s not taste-testing Phichit’s concoctions anymore.

Viktor smiles. “I get that a lot.”

“Not exactly like him!” Yuuri scrambles for words. “Your forehead is a lot wider.”

“Excuse me?”

“In a good way! It’s a good forehead.”

“First you kidnap my dog, then you kidnap me and then you insult my hairline,” Viktor says. “I suppose I should be flattered to be kidnapped by a real villain this time. Chad tied me up with rope from Home Depot.”

Chad smells like Axe, unironically has “no fats, no fems, no Asians” in his Minion Match profile on VillainSpace, and his evil activities consist of tax evasion on his millions and keeping his shady politician dad out of prison. Yuuri can only assume everything on his Grindr profile was a big, fat lie.

“Oh!” Yuuri realizes. “I did it!”

“What?”

“I kidnapped you!” Yuuri grins as he registers the truth. “Can I tie you up? I have rope. It’s velvet.” He rummages around in a hidden compartment for it. “It’s pink?”

“I love pink.”

Viktor holds out his wrists.

Yuuri holds his breath as he ties them together. Viktor has pretty hands, and he smells like lavender. Yuuri swallows.

This is going to go so poorly.

* * *

 

While Yuuri is pretending to adjust one of the totally superfluous dials on his weather control ray, Viktor gets out of his cuffs and starts playing with the dogs. Again.

Viktor is the worst kidnappee: he’s not afraid, he doesn’t scream in terror, he makes Yuuri give him half the ransom money, and he thinks all the dogs Yuuri has “stolen” from abusive owners and veterinary hospitals are cute. Even though they’re cyborgs, Viktor loves them all, remembers their names, and oils their mechanical joints.

“How do you keep getting out of the cuffs?” Yuuri asks despairingly. “Those are new! I just made them this morning!” The cuffs have a magnetic lock and two failsafes, and no keyholes to pick, and are made of a titanium-steel alloy. So naturally they’re now lying on the floor under Viktor’s empty chair.

Viktor wiggles his fingers at him before scooping up Vicchan to give him kisses all over his metal face. “I have a lot of bondage experience.”

“You—what?” Yuuri shakes his head to clear the vivid mental image of Viktor tied up and begging. “Can’t you stay in the chair?”

“No.”

“Why—Viktor, do you not understand how being kidnapped works?”

“Is it really a kidnapping if we scheduled it in advance?” Viktor asks. He throws one of the dog toys lying around and all the dogs go running to fetch it. “Is it really a kidnapping if we have a Google calendar? Is it really a kidnapping if you made me a sandwich?”

“The sandwich could be evil.” _You looked hungry,_ Yuuri does not say. _You forget to eat like half your meals. I’m concerned._

Viktor looks at him skeptically. He’s probably wondering why he doesn’t rate a real supervillain.

“Fine, it’s just a regular grilled cheese.” The only thing evil about Yuuri’s grilled cheese is the calorie count.

Yuuri ignores Viktor’s soft laugh in favor of sipping from the thermos of tea Viktor brought with him. (It’s matcha. It tastes just the way the tea back home tastes.) He’s aware that he’s not very villainous, even though he frequently commits crimes. Dog theft just isn’t very evil. The kidnappings, obviously, are a joke. He does have a giant mech, but he mostly uses it to destroy hostile architecture and statues of The Amazing Chad.

It’s not that Yuuri wants to run out and start working his way through the human rights violations outlined in the Geneva Convention, and he likes being able to make Viktor laugh, but…just once. _Just once,_ he thinks, _I’d like to shake Viktor a little. Not frighten him. Just…impress him. Command his attention._ It doesn’t help that New Metro City is the revolving door of superheroes and no one has stayed long enough become Yuuri’s archnemesis. It’s not like Chad and his rich kid supervillain hobbyist posse are a threat.

“You could at least…I don’t know. Threaten to ravish me against my will or something.”

Yuuri raises an eyebrow skeptically at him. One time, he had turned up at Viktor’s place in the middle of the night to surprise kidnap him. Viktor hadn’t been sleeping. He’d been lying in bed with the lights on and the covers thrown back, jerking off.

Yuuri had gotten three words into a speech about evil, screamed a little, and fled. So now they have a Google calendar and Yuuri knocks before he goes into Viktor’s bedroom every time.

(Yuuri has never even touched Viktor with his bare skin; he takes care to maintain a professional distance from Viktor at all times. Even though Viktor has soft hair and lean muscles and is very touchable.)

“What kind of supervillain refuses to kidnap someone just because they’re naked?”

“It was the middle of winter.”

“I’m Russian.”

Yuuri feels his face heat and looks away. He sighs as he switches the feed on the monitor from the Atlantic Ocean (thematically appropriate) to YouTube (what Yuuri actually does in the evil lair).

Unfortunately, YouTube is recommending him videos with titles like “Top Ten Sexiest Nicephorus Nip Slips” and revealing that the one of the last videos Yuuri watched was the Fifty Shades of Grey parody trailer made entirely with footage from the terrible Nicephorus movie that came out last year. (Yuuri had only gone to see it three times. And he bought the tickets using one of his fake identities. It didn’t count.) The video he was in the middle of watching is battle footage, which would be less embarrassing if it wasn’t paused at Nicephorus post battle, bangs plastered to his forehead with sweat, costume ripped up the side to reveal a sparkling gold _N_ on the right side of his rib cage.

“Wow,” Viktor says. He props his chin in his hand. “So you really did start kidnapping me because of the resemblance.”

“No! I—that has nothing to do with it!” He rubs at his eyes. It’s an exercise in futility.

It’s not like Yuuri only kidnaps Viktor because he looks a bit like Nicephorus. Really, Viktor is so much more to Yuuri than any image on a poster could be. Sure, Nicephorus’s silvery fringe is pretty, but the way Viktor’s long hair curls when it’s wet is so much better. Yeah, thinking about defeating Nicephorus (and then ‘defeating’ Nicephorus) is hot, but Yuuri would rather have his pedestrian imaginings about Viktor’s response to Yuuri’s new quesadilla recipe. If Nicephorus showed up right now to rescue Viktor, Yuuri wouldn’t be pleased, he’d be disappointed, because that would mean Viktor would—

 _Oh, god,_ Yuuri thinks.

His pathetic celebrity crush on a superhero who’d retired three years ago has been supplanted by his pathetic reality crush on the man Yuuri kidnaps once a week.

Yuuri cannot fall in love with Viktor Nikiforov. Viktor, who uses Yuuri as a taste tester for his new tea blends, and who enthusiastically asks every time about the progress of Yuuri’s matter converter, and who has a freakish ability to get himself out of his restraints no matter how many pairs of ultra secure cuffs Yuuri makes.

“Oh, god,” Yuuri says. He _already has._

This horrifying revelation is so all-consuming that Yuuri doesn’t notice Viktor coming towards him until Viktor is taking the riding crop he’s been tapping nervously against his thigh out of his hands. Yuuri yelps—why doesn’t Viktor make noise?—as Viktor slaps the end of the crop against his palm.

“Wow,” Viktor says. “Is this real?”

“I made some modifications.”

“You know, when I first met you, I really hoped you were going to use this on me.” Viktor slaps the crop against his palm again. It leaves a red mark in the center, scarlet against his white skin.

“I would never—hoped?”

“I mean, why else would you be carrying a riding crop?”

“There are lots of reasons to carry a riding crop.”

“Do you have a horse?”

“…no?”

“Mmm.” Viktor offers him the crop, handle first. “You wear black leather, you call yourself Eros, you kidnap people and tie them up…you can’t blame me for getting my hopes up.”

Yuuri takes the crop back; he’s got gloves on, but he still swears he can feel the warmth of Viktor’s touch on it. He turns it over, slowly, trying to comprehend what’s happening. In his wildest dreams, Yuuri couldn’t have imagined Viktor suggesting that he fantasized about Yuuri beating him with his riding crop. (Which, okay, Yuuri has had this exact fantasy. But that’s him! He’s a pervert!)

“This is an expensive piece of equipment,” Yuuri says faintly. “I’m not going to break it on your back.”

“Oh.”

“The regular leather ones are upstairs.”

“Oh.”

Viktor looks expectantly at him. Yuuri tries to imagine Viktor in his arms, Viktor bent over the arm of the sofa in Yuuri’s workshop, Viktor allowing Yuuri to do all the filthy things that Yuuri has imagined to him. Yuuri has invented sex toys to use on Viktor, for fuck’s sake. And here is his chance.

He meets Viktor’s eyes.

And loses his nerve entirely. Yuuri has no idea what Viktor is imagining, but he doesn’t want to have to live up to it.

“…anyways.” Yuuri summons his blankest expression and clips the crop back onto his belt. He walks past Viktor to fiddle with the weather control ray again. Viktor’s gaze makes the hair on the back of Yuuri’s neck stand on end; he knows Viktor is watching him even with his back turned.

Surely if Yuuri just stays at the console and pretends to be busy, Viktor will stop, and go play with Makkachin or something. Surely. Any minute now.

“You know what, I just remembered I have a—a—let me drop you off.”

“Already? It’s not even six!”

“I have a thing,” Yuuri repeats. He does not, in fact, have a thing. “Why don’t you go.”

Behind him, Viktor sighs. “Fine,” he says.

Yuuri pokes a button on the weather control ray nervously and then turns around to offer Viktor a ride off.

It’s too late. Viktor is gone. _How did he even get out,_ Yuuri wonders. All the doors in this room are concealed. _I knew I shouldn’t have added his retinal scan to the house security._

* * *

 

Yuuri spends an entire fifteen minutes not obsessing about Viktor before he throws his welding gear across the room, lies on the floor, and and…obsesses about Viktor.

It’s not surprising to Yuuri that Viktor wants him. No, that’s a lie, it is surprising, but after some thought Yuuri comes up with what he thinks is the likeliest explanation: Viktor loves danger.

Viktor has always treated the kidnappings like picnics, even in the early days when Yuuri bothered with death traps and alligators, even when it was Chad kidnapping him. Viktor was once mugged six times in one month and Yuuri had caught him trying to negotiate with the guy holding him at gunpoint. Yuuri had once dropped by Viktor’s apartment for a light afternoon abduction and found Viktor calmly holding a teapot. The teapot was on fire.

(Yuuri worries about Viktor sometimes.)

In that light, “BDSM with local supervillain” seems, for Viktor, fairly tame.

He tries to imagine Viktor reciprocating Yuuri’s feelings; could Viktor feel the same way about him? Does he think about Yuuri when they’re apart? Does he buy Yuuri gifts that go ungiven the way Yuuri invents self-heating mugs and self-cleaning tea strainers for Viktor that are gathering dust in a closet downstairs? When Yuuri kidnaps him, does he want to stay the same way Yuuri doesn’t want him to leave?

Impossible, Yuuri thinks. Instead he tries to imagine Viktor wanting Eros—not Yuuri as Eros, but Eros as he must appear to people who have never met actual Yuuri. That, at least, Yuuri can understand.

“Okay,” Yuuri says aloud. He gets up off the floor. “I can work with that.”

* * *

 

“Is this your sex dungeon?”

“We’re on the third floor.”

Yuuri is forced to admit, as he looks around, that this part of the workshop does look suspiciously dungeon-like. It’s dark. It’s grey. The furniture is red leather because that was what was on sale at Evil Depot. It doesn’t help that one entire wall is a mirror. (Yuuri does ballet in here. For evil purposes. Kind of.)

The materials Yuuri uses to make the crops are stored in a locker embedded in the wall; Yuuri stands still for the retinal scanning before the door pops open. Three of four unaltered crops are hanging inside. He takes one out; it’s black, glossy, the leather like butter. He clips it to his belt.

“Here.” Yuuri takes Viktor’s hand, rolls up his sleeve to the elbow.

Viktor’s skin is near white in the gloom. The contrast between Yuuri’s black glove and the inside of his wrist is stark. He wonders if the leather is cold; Yuuri feels like the room is on fire, sweat dripping down his nose. Slowly, without letting himself think about it, Yuuri catches the edge of his glove in his teeth and peels it off.

The way Viktor’s mouth drops open a little is very satisfying.

Yuuri has never touched Viktor’s skin with his own before. Until this moment, he could have never imagined that someone’s arm could be so erotic. He could have never imagined that he could run his fingers down Viktor’s forearm, over the pulse in his wrist and the muscle drawn taut, against the inside of Viktor’s elbow where the veins are blue and green under the skin. He could never have imagined that he could press his thumb into Viktor’s icy palm and get off on it—like it’s too much, like it’s not enough.

He traces a line over Viktor’s wrist where the cuffs would be. “Are you ever going to show me how you keep getting out of the cuffs?”

“Eros, do you not know how a kidnapping works? The hostage is supposed to try to escape.”

“Oh?” Yuuri brings Viktor’s wrist to his mouth, to kiss over the spiderweb of veins there. “Guess I better do something to keep you in line…”

He pulls Viktor by the wrist over to the mirror; Viktor allows himself to be lead, as he always does. Yuuri crowds him against the glass, watching the expression on Viktor’s reflection’s face. His forehead is shiny with sweat, his cheeks red. The shirt he’s wearing is pale pink. Yuuri wonders if Viktor is the same color underneath it. The buttons on his shirt come undone, one and then two and then four, until Yuuri is sliding it down his shoulders and crumpling it around his elbows.

Viktor is gorgeous. The brief glimpse Yuuri got during that one failed kidnapping didn’t do him justice. The broad expanse of his shoulders, the plane of his freckled back, the way his narrow waist fits in Yuuri’s hands—Yuuri is glad he’s behind Viktor, because he doubts his awestruck expression would inspire confidence. He rips off his remaining glove to touch; Viktor’s skin, velvet soft, catches on the calluses on Yuuri’s fingers.

The shirt slips over Viktor’s wrists onto the floor. It might be ruined. What a shame.

He can feel Viktor breathing as he strokes over Viktor’s ribs, over his hips and stomach. Fingers splayed over his chest, he can feel the pounding of Viktor’s heart; a strand of pale hair has fallen out of Viktor’s bun, dangling over Yuuri’s cheek. Yuuri tugs on it gently.

“You’re ruining my hair,” Viktor whispers.

“I’m going to ruin more than just your hair,” Yuuri whispers back. It takes him a few minutes to remove all the pins in Viktor’s hair—Yuuri has never dealt with anyone with such elaborate hair, is secretly afraid he’ll do it wrong—and then Viktor’s hair is spread over his back in long, fine strands. It smells like amber and resin. The pins clatter to the floor as Yuuri buries his face in it, inhales, shoves Viktor against the mirror until his breath is leaving condensation on the glass.

“You really want me to hit you?”

“Yes.”

“Have you done this before, or—”

“Yes.”

Yuuri curls a hand in Viktor’s hair. “Say please.”

“Excuse me?”

“Say please,” Yuuri repeats. He kisses the back of Viktor’s neck before craning to see Viktor’s expression in the mirror. He’s blushing. “Go on.”

In the glass, Viktor meets his eyes. He licks his lips, slowly. “Please, Eros,” he says breathily, “I haven’t been laid in two years because everyone else in this city is too terrified of you to have sex with me, so stop fucking around and give it to me already.”

“I wouldn’t have done anything to them.” Yuuri bites, very gently, into the flesh between Viktor’s shoulder and neck. “Unless they weren’t nice.”

Viktor opens his mouth to respond, and Yuuri cuts him off by dragging the heel of his hand over Viktor’s erection through his jeans. Viktor’s hips buck against his hand; Yuuri squeezes him roughly before groping for Viktor’s fly. He shoves off Viktor’s jeans once he has them unbuttoned and unzipped, too impatient to drag it out any longer.

Naturally, Viktor’s thighs ripple with muscle, his ass is lush, and he’s wearing the tiniest, laciest underwear Yuuri has ever seen. It’s the same pink as his shirt, and it’s woefully inadequate at covering Viktor’s cock, which strains against the fabric obscenely. Yuuri swallows so loudly Viktor must hear it. His body is so perfect, so unmarked. He understands why Viktor wants him to hit him; he bets Viktor bruises like an overripe piece of fruit.

Viktor is braced against the mirror on his forearms, body bent forward so that the line of his back is a temptation. Yuuri takes a few steps back to give himself room. He takes up the crop again and slaps it against his thigh.

His catsuit absorbs the impact so well Yuuri barely feels it, but the sound is impossibly loud. Viktor trembles.

Yuuri trails the tip of the crop down Viktor’s back. “Okay?” Viktor nods. He taps it lightly against his ass. “Here?”

  
“It’s fine.” Viktor says hoarsely. “Harder.”

No warm up, then. So Yuuri cracks the crop over his ass again—it leaves a bright red mark—Viktor sighs loudly.

“Harder—” Viktor begs; Yuuri complies, on the opposite cheek this time. “Yes, fuck, just like that.”

A panel in the sleeve of Yuuri’s suit lights up, giving him a force measurement. Yuuri switches on the force modulation, so that the suit can control the impact for him—he’s never done this with Viktor before, best not to leave anything to chance—and then taps Viktor lightly with the crop again, right over one of the scarlet marks already there.

“How many do you want?”

“Just hit me until I tell you to stop.”

Jealousy twists in Yuuri’s stomach for a moment, for whoever Viktor did this with before, so well that he’s willing to take it from Yuuri now. But it passes. He can’t change the past any more than he can change how Viktor feels, about him or about anyone else. Viktor wants it? Yuuri will give it to him happily.

The crop is loud. The snap as he swings, the smack of the leather tip against Viktor’s skin, the way Viktor cries out as bright red marks bloom over his fair skin like roses in spring, all of them are loud, backed by the pounding blood in Yuuri’s ears. Viktor leans heavily against the mirror, skin squeaking against the glass. Even bent over, the posture of his shoulders is perfect; Yuuri watches the strain of muscle and tendon up the back of his legs as he braces for each blow.

Yuuri varies the timing of each strike—sometimes three seconds, sometimes as many as ten—counting under his breath as Viktor shudders. The anticipation is almost worse than the pain, Yuuri thinks; Viktor sounds as relieved as he does aroused when Yuuri finally snaps the crop against his ass. The color spreads over his skin until he’s as red as an apple, and quivering.

“Eros,” Viktor moans. There’s sweat dripping fascinatingly down his back. “I can’t—”

“Shh.”

He throws the crop aside. It falls to the floor with a dull sound as he embraces Viktor from behind. He catches a glimpse of his own face over Viktor’s shoulder—he looks the way he feels, entirely overcome. The crotch of his catsuit is horribly constricting. He drags a palm over Viktor’s stomach, snaps the strap of his tiny underwear against his hip, lets himself rut his erection against Viktor’s ass. Viktor grabs his hand and shoves it between his thighs, so that the wet triangle of fabric sticks to Yuuri’s bare palm.

Viktor’s eyes close as Yuuri tugs his underwear out of the way—one of the straps breaks—and fists his cock. Yuuri savors it: the slide of Viktor’s foreskin as Yuuri’s palm slides down his shaft, the way Viktor bites down on his lip in an entirely inadequate attempt to muffle himself, the sheen of sweat on Viktor’s skin and under Yuuri’s tongue where he presses his mouth to Viktor’s neck.

“Watch me,” Yuuri says.

Viktor’s lashes flutter; Yuuri encourages him with a swipe of his thumb over his slit, smearing pearly precome over the head of his cock. Their eyes meet in the mirror. Viktor whimpers.

“Please.”

“Shh.” Yuuri jerks him off faster. He can feel the throbbing pulse in Viktor’s cock against his skin; Viktor rubs against him, making Yuuri wish he could undress, slot his red cock between Viktor’s red cheeks, make a mess of it by coming all over him.

He settles for making Viktor come on the mirror instead. Viktor gasps, “Eros,”—Yuuri imagines him using Yuuri’s real name instead—and that’s too much. Yuuri buries his face in Viktor’s hair as he comes, too.

Viktor slumps against the mirror, trembling, and Yuuri collapses against him for a few moments.

Then he realizes there’s a couch right there.

“Hey,” he whispers. “Are you okay?”

“Yes,” Viktor says.

Viktor starts to crumple to the floor, and Yuuri acts without thinking as he scoops him up. Prior to this moment, he’s carried Viktor exactly twice, and both times in life or death situations. He sets Viktor down on the couch, and summons a helper bot to bring them water and a blanket; Viktor curls up against Yuuri, though the leather of Yuuri’s clothing can’t be much warmer than the leather of the couch.

“I didn’t know you had it in you, Eros.”

“I told you I was evil, didn’t I?”

“Is it really evil if I enjoyed it?”

Yuuri shivers as Viktor’s fine hair tickles his cheek; he holds him a little tighter. “It’s all part of my plan,” he whispers, though it’s not true. In this strange and wonderful moment, Yuuri has no idea what he’s doing at all.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are much appreciated! (If you've seen me on discord talking about this AU and there are plot points that don't appear in this fic, it's because I have two versions of this basic premise. The second fic is still being written.)


End file.
